Dust In Space
by Space-Kid
Summary: 'How many lives is it worth' A chronicle of Gallifrey in the period leading up to the Last Great Time War following the transformation of the planet from a fortress of peace and guardianship in the universe to become specs of rock simply floating around in space.


'A Time Lord's greed is the definitive origin of all matters related to history.'

Coordinator Narvinectralonum.

'The Art Of Celestial Intervention.'

Dust In Space.

Part 1. The Last Days Of Civil War In The Third Quarters.

Chapter One. Tunnels.

The darkness of night overhauled into a deep, shallow morning as midnight devoured the day. Explosions decorated the dark purple horizon as three soldiers hurried through their communication trenches under an intense laser blaze from mechanical enemy guns positioned far across the forest. As a dirty sweat saturated his blonde hair, the helmet-less Leroy Tuchman lead their battalion of three; the sole survivors of the specialized Prydon foot-corps through the thin tubes of shelter. His heavy heels smashed along each of the frail wooden boards that bordered the trench, shattering puddles of blood and sewerage across his orange pant bottoms. A loose necklace repeatedly smashed across his cold chest, mimicking the pace and chill of the heavy beats of his hearts. Far ahead of him, and beyond the trenches the whimpers of battle echoed through a forrest. Foolishly, he kept his eyes focused strongly on the distant end of the tunnel, leading his friends to an almost inevitable destruction. The dim light of storm lanterns drenched the trenches but for Tuchman the glow of explosions beyond the tunnel's exit was the brightest illumination.

Closely behind Tuchman, his second in command Lexa breathed warmly and frequently. Huddled so closely behind her captain, her long hair kept whipping his neck as they ran. She was one of only four girls on the initial battalion of fifteen and the only one to survive thus far. Though a victory of sorts, this survival only meant that she had seen each of her peers anonymously murdered on the battlefield, each meeting the same fate in nightmarish conditions. Holding firmly onto her shoulder was Rudy, a skinny farm-boy from the higher-lands. He watched the back of Lexa's head as if it possessed a halo, and placed more strength on the grip of his hand on her shoulder than he had on anything before. He was eager to make sure she never felt alone, and of greater significance was determined that she never lost him. Rudy's bare feet scrapped across loose nails and shards of glass, but his determination was unshaken. Although possessing three lonely bodies, these soldiers were almost attached through experience and each could recall the others' memories as strongly as if they were their own. Silhouetted, they were driven by fear and excitement, knowing they were only moments away from a decisive battle, and wondering whether they would ever see the walls of these trenches again.

The avalanche of artillery that smashed towards them was a mere whisper that deep in the trenches, but nonetheless they were running towards the enemy. As they neared a small opening and a rusty ladder that marked the exit of the trenches, their running transformed into an exhausted march. Their gasps and howls for air were muted by the deafening screeches of Splintorian Riffles from above. Almost there, they positioned themselves side by side, and began to step over the dead and wounded. The tear stained cheeks of a dead soldier were smashed by one of Tuchman's boots as he paused gazing at the spectacular array of lights and ignition that paraded the skies above the trench. A small hole masqueraded as their window to the battle outside, and an old ladder as their ticket to entry. The sound of enemy attack intensified and unfamiliar shouts, gunshots, explosions and laser beams echoed through the tunnel. Tuchman turned towards his muddy friends and moaned in a soft voice; "best of luck." With the horrifying noise of battle above them, Rudy and Lexa couldn't hear him. As his last words fell on deaf ears, Tuchman began to climb the ladder. As he quickly reached the top, he could see the shadowy forest that divided him from his enemies and the fire that danced across the tree tops and reached for the heavens. Although his dirty blond hair was nearly invisible amongst the wet orange grass, he knew he was reasonably exposed and would have to act fast.

Before climbing onto solid ground, Tuchman peered down at his allies one last time. He rotated to face Lexa, and nodded. Then to Rudy, and nodded. They both nodded back as he turned away.

With both arms, Tuchman pulled himself through the small, vertical gateway. As he stabilized himself on the sharp ground, he realized how truly tired he was. The bones of his legs burned and scorched his flesh as his ankles cracked like crashing stones. Shards of gravel decorated his thin beard and his blue eyes were engulfed by brown rings that wrinkled his face and revealed his age like circles in trees. Despite the sharpness of his features and strength of his character, at this moment he was merely a silhouette in an empty forest; a shadowy target for the opposing Conservative Forces. He began to wander, very slowly, attempting invisibility rather than fragile agility. Across the hill, the only life in the forest could be observed through explosions and laser glare and not another Gallifreyan was in sight. He strolled towards a lonely August tree as he pulled his gold pistol from his pants pocket. He stumbled and landed under the shade of the tree's branches with a thump as bullets scorched overhead. An article of graffiti was carved across the bark directly above him. Written in a rushed ancient Gallifreyian and with thin lettering, it almost sung; "how many lives is it worth?" Although undeniably written by a fallen soldier, Tuchman recognized it as a misquote of his favorite Gallifreyan philosopher; the Scribbler, a Time Lord revolutionary who was executed publicly in the early years of Gallifrey. As a child, Tuchman had been fond of 'The Story Of The Scribbler,' a fractured biography he stole from his adoptive father's library. The story was mostly fictionalized as most of The Scribbler's life had become legend and here-say, yet he often admired the paradoxical strength and fragility of the protagonist. As he laid underneath the branches of the August tree with only one moon in sight above, he recalled in his mind, almost word for word, the Scribbler's alleged last words, as he stood on a stage with a gun to his head in front of a crowd of his rivals;

_ 'How many lives is it worth to keep the 'old-ways' new? I predict a time in which the land we stand on now will be dust in space, disassembled by battle and war. I see a time where your blood and the blood of your ancestors fertilizes the plants and food for an elite 'time lord' society, and it makes me want to die. No elite group should control the flow of time, yet I know, as simple minded Gallifreyans, you will always grant the Time Lords the control that they don't deserve. Free time, and ensure Gallifrey's survival. Continue to lord over time, and others will strive to steal the control you have. Outlaw time travel, and watch societies grow rather than prevent the natural. Keep exploring time, and destroy all that ever was and will be. Reveal the secrets of immortality and regeneration to not only Time Lords, but to the entire Gallifreyan population, and create an eternal society that prospers and evolves, then grow old as you stand side by side with your youngest and most distant ancestors. So how many lives is it worth to keep the 'old ways' new, because that simple sentiment makes me want to die. War and destruction will always be a product of the 'old ways.' So how many deaths will it take, to make you people rethink tradition and maybe reconsider the direction this planet is going in? One? Two? One Hundred? If there is a slight chance that my demise will stir thoughts for a revolution, well, sign me up.'_

With his right hand feeling the muddy ground, Tuchman thought about these words as not only a eulogy to The Scribbler, but to the planet of Gallifrey as a whole. He clenched his hand into a dirty fist, and for a moment feared that the soaked ground would one day not exist; getting blown to pieces as a result of what seemed like endless wars. But on this purple night, the grass shone with a fiery rage and Gallifrey was very alive. Tuchman wondered about the soldier who carved the Scribbler's musings across the tree, and grieved for his almost certain loss. Deep in his mind, he imagined that the faceless soldier had been a revolutionary at heart much like himself, and had died upon realizing that change under such a crooked government as Gallifreys' was fundamentally pointless, yet still died having been left with no alternative. His cheek twitched as he thought about all the corpses he'd used throughout the course of the war as stepping stones across drenched soil and as heat in the coldest nights, and wondered if they too had been passionate in their plight against the government. Yet with all their passion, and all their loves and memories, they became lifeless floorboards on a battlefield, decaying as the world around them was cremated. Clenching his hand even tighter, the sounds of explosions that engulfed him faded in his mind and instantly, he found himself reliving a long forgotten memory; Flo-Carting with his older brother Sam on shallow fields of property. For a moment, there was no civil war and no revolution, just he and his freckly ally pushing themselves further down the hill in their homemade vehicle, as green smoke sizzled from the exhaust and their mother called out after them; "what are you boys doing?!" There was no explosions then, and the sky was clear. Tuchman quickly pinpointed this as the last day he had ever spent with Sam before he was chosen by the Allegiance and sent to Time Lord Academy. Back in reality, Tuchman wheezed a troubled sigh knowing he wouldn't even recognize his brother now. Since the Prydon league so strongly opposed the teachings of the Time Lords, he even for a moment felt as if he could have passed him on the battlefield, and maybe even shot at him. Maybe all 13 lives that Sam was gifted by the Tempted Schism had been wasted in the war, and maybe Tuchman was the cause for one of them.

He raised his hand, and tugged at a white piece of string that gently peeped out of his pants' pocket. A tiny red notebook attached to the end fell out. He quickly picked it up and began to write;

_ 'I die, but tis' enough that Gallifrey lives. I really do love this planet." _

He quickly signed it; 'Leroy Tuchman', and softly buried the notebook in the mud. Using the tree for support, he picked himself up. With his gun in both arms, he ran with amazing speed towards the explosions. Even quicker, a laser smashed past and shattered his head. His dead brain became two as it fell from his leaking head-wound and raced his body to the ground. There his corpse laid, a bloody mess of stuff and mud.

In the trenches, Rudy's hand was still placed tightly upon Lexa's shoulder. Nervous and shaking, he helped hold her stable and gave her warmth. Terror hissed and whined high above them, and with their necks aching, they both gazed at the lights in the sky with mixed pride and shame; this is what man is capable of, explosions and bombs that destroy the planet and transcend the heavens. Rudy leaned in close to Lexa's ear, but she didn't flinch as he shouted, "Theres something that I realize when I'm with you, that I forget when you're away." She held her ear closer to his mouth as he revealed "its about the future, so I'd like to tell you when the war is over." She nodded before turning to kiss him.

"Should we go up now?" she asked softly and even though he couldn't hear her voice, Rudy knew what she had said. He shook his head and moved his arm from her shoulder to her waist. "Maybe," she looked at his face, "we could stay like this until now becomes future, when theres no war." She kissed his chin with her gentle lips that always carried such a soft voice. "Just like this, forever."

"Physically; you know we won't." Rudy responded as little bits of spit shot out of his mouth, "but emotionally; we will. Forever." A scatter-bomb danced and blew across the roof of the trenches, making the tunnel echo with a throbbing roar. Rudy's hand tightened and Lexa's body loosened. Reminded of their situation, he sighed and remembered that his words may be the last ever spoken to his love, but suddenly he smiled, "I think true love is having somebody be there when you die, and still love you as you lose life and strength, and personality." Lexa hardly heard him, but thought he had said something else.

"My life is nothing but being near you." She admitted, "no war, no fighting, no hope, no shame, just you."

"What about the future?" Rudy asked, but images quickly flooded his mind of imaginary children that looked like him and Lexa playing in a paddock, and suddenly he didn't need an answer. Lexa sensed this and kissed him again. Lexa turned and began to climb the ladder and following closely behind, Rudy reminded her "I've got your back!"

With their guns held tight to their chest, the couple ran through the left side of the forrest. Trees and plants made the area seem busy but the explosions were directed elsewhere. Lexa looked ahead, scouting out for hiding enemies, but Rudy looked only at her. Lexa's feet carefully dodged the slippery roots of a Wiping Gelok tree and spiked the shallow mud with pointy determination. Before she even noticed, her right foot hit a silver shard of metal; a sensor bomb that quickly exploded and tore her to pieces. In disbelief Rudy kept running for a few moments before falling to the ground. Without even looking at her remains, he screamed in gibberish that was louder than any of the explosions and weapons that surrounded him ever could be.

Nearby, three conservative troops heard Rudy's croaky scream and quickly turned in his direction. The eldest one gazed at the two others and laughed; "I think we've got our hostage." They began to run towards him.


End file.
